


signed, sealed, delivered

by dilkirani



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, a little crying over miscommunication as ya do, best man/maid of honor AU, lots of fluff, only happy endings here!, tw: mention of Fitz's father/abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 02:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13156875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilkirani/pseuds/dilkirani
Summary: Written for the 2017 FitzSimmons Secret Santa. Prompt: "Fitz and Jemma meet as the best man and maid of honor in their friends' wedding--will they infuriate each other or will sparks fly?"*There's only a very brief smut section in the last chapter, sectioned off with asterisks if you want to skip. Everything else is PG.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuburbanSun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/gifts).



> <3 to itsavolcano for the love and support throughout!

Fitz raises his beer in greeting as he maneuvers towards the booth at the back of the cafe where the other three members of Operation: Wedding of the Century (better names still under consideration) sit. Daisy, clearly already a few mimosas in, claps her hands in enthusiasm, then gestures from Fitz to Jemma, as if he might not be able to figure out who she is.

“Allow me to officially make the introductions,” she says, mock formally. “Jemma Simmons, noted biochemist, perfect English rose, and Trip’s good friend since high school, now his maid of honor. And Leopold ‘don’t call me that’ Fitz, noted grump and adequate—just kidding, amazing!—engineer, and _my_ best friend since college, now my best man!”

Jemma smiles at Daisy, then wrinkles her brow in confusion. “Aren’t those terms normally reversed?”

Daisy pauses for a moment before shrugging. “Okay, so you’re best woman and Fitz is...man of honor? I mean, do the labels really matter?”

Jemma straightens up, tugging at her blouse. “Well, I quite happen to like labels. The proper classification of things, as we all know, is important in my line of work.” Trip throws her a look, and she sighs. “But I concede that this is not my wedding, so whatever will make you two happiest is of course of paramount importance.”

Daisy grins triumphantly. “Right, well, now that we have that sorted out.” She holds up photos of wedding parties in different coordinating outfits. “How do we feel about the men in kilts?”

Fitz’s face turns bright red and he chokes on his sip of beer, sputtering out a half-formed protest. “I’m the only Scotsman you know! Why would we all wear kilts? I know for a fact this is because—”

“Actually,” Trip says, holding a hand up to stop Fitz. “I happen to be 1/8th Scottish, and I find it offensive you would assume I wasn’t based on—”

“No!” Fitz gasps, caught off guard and backpedaling quickly. “I didn’t assume because...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Daisy shrieks with laughter and Trip grins at him, perfect white teeth nearly blinding. “Relax, man, I’m kidding. And so’s Daisy.”

She nods, tossing the kilt photo aside. “Anyway, we’ll save that for your own wedding.”

Fitz slouches down in his seat, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. Jemma, he notices, hasn’t reacted at all, although her mouth quirks up slightly. He feels his face flush again when he realizes the most embarrassing part of this whole conversation is that he actually cares an inordinate amount about Jemma’s opinion.

He really hates Daisy for all the times she teased him about how he just _had_ to meet Trip’s friend, how _perfect_ she was, how they were so _hashtag meant-to-be_. Now, he can’t string three words together in a sentence without humiliating himself in front of her.

He looks up in time to catch Daisy slide easily under Trip’s arm, nuzzling into his chest. He sighs resignedly—he really is happy for his best friend, and she does deserve the wedding of her dreams.

“I found these flower arrangements,” he grumbles, scrolling through the photos on his phone to show her. “I know daisies might seem a bit on the nose, but they _are_ your favorite. I thought this bouquet was unique, yet simple. It’d look nice with your dress.”

“Aww,” Daisy says, peering closer at the picture. “You’re such a softie, Fitzy. And I _love_ this—let’s do it!” She ruffles his hair affectionately before ticking a box next to “bouquets” on the checklist in front of her. Fitz tries not to notice Jemma smiling in his periphery.

Fitz settles the bill two hours later while Trip helps a very tipsy Daisy to her feet. From a rather promising start, the planning session had devolved into sharing stories about disastrous weddings they’d attended, interspersed with Daisy’s increasingly unsubtle comments about anything she knew Fitz and Jemma both liked.

“Seriously,” Daisy says, placing one hand on Fitz’s head and the other on Jemma’s cheek, probably as much from a need for balance as from affection. “You guys are the best. We’re so happy you’re helping. I would never want to do this without either of you.”

“Oh, Daisy, _of course_ ,” Jemma enthuses. “I’m so happy for both of you. Now go home and rest, and we’ll get started on some of these action items.”

Trip holds a fist up to Fitz, who stares at him in confusion before wrapping his hand around the other man’s knuckles.

“All right, we’ll work on that,” Trip laughs. “See you guys later. I’m taking this one home.”

Jemma grins broadly, waving her fingers as they head for the exit, but when Fitz moves to follow their friends she grabs the collar of his jacket, spinning him to her in one fast, unexpected motion. She’s no longer smiling and her eyes glint dangerously in the dim lighting.

“What—?” Fitz starts, but Jemma shakes her head, pushing him back down into the booth.

“We need to discuss our schedule.”

“S-sorry?”

“Fitz.” She sits across from him, hands clasped in front of her, a stern expression on her face. “I love Trip and Daisy more than anything, but they spontaneously got engaged in the middle of wedding season, and now are planning to have it _two months_ from now. You realize that’s _eight weeks_ away, right?”

“I can count,” Fitz mutters, unsure if he should be offended or not.

“Perhaps,” she concedes. “But you don’t seem particularly aware of how difficult this undertaking is.”

Okay, that definitely offends him. “I’m aware!” he protests, but Jemma cuts him off.

“Daisy wants this wedding to be, and I quote, ‘the classiest, most ridiculous, most fun, most beautiful dance party in the history of weddings. And please make sure there’s plenty of debauchery.’ I’m not sure you realize how impossible that is with eight weeks notice.”

“It’s also contradictory,” Fitz laughs, stopping abruptly when he realizes Jemma is glaring at him. “Come on, Simmons,” he says. “I’ve known Daisy since freshman year. She’s excited, but she’s joking...mostly. She’d be perfectly happy getting married in someone’s living room, as long as we were all there.”

Jemma frowns and he slinks back a little in his seat. He hadn’t noticed, as the four of them had laughed their way through the initial planning brunch, how intense she could be. “Be that as it may, Daisy and Trip deserve the best wedding we can give them while still being budget-conscious, and at this point many vendors will already be booked. Daisy doesn’t have any family, and Trip’s family, while...delightful, are spread all across the country and won’t be much help. So it’s up to us, which is why I’ve prepared these.”

She pulls two binders from her bag, one with his name on the cover and one with hers.

“Is this...color-coded?” he asks, reading through a detailed timeline followed by pages of footnotes.

“I excel at preparation,” she replies, somewhat smugly. “I’ve included all of my contact information, including social media. That way if we see something on instagram, for example, we can just send it, rather than copying the link into a text message. Much more efficient.”

“Oh,” Fitz says. “I uh, I don’t have instagram. And I’m not on other social media much.”

Jemma sighs, as if he’s already proving to be a bigger problem than she’d anticipated. “Can I see your phone?” she asks politely.

He hands it over to her without even thinking to protest. Jemma Simmons, it turns out, is...fierce, and he feels at this point it’s best to simply do as she says. He flips through her binder of research while she taps away at his phone, grudgingly admitting to himself that her timeline does seem very well thought out, and noting that she’s already done significant research into wedding vendors in the area.

“What are ‘non-wedding related meetings?’” he asks, pointing at the pink-colored time slots throughout her schedule.

“Hm?” She doesn’t look up from his phone. “Oh, I thought since we’ll be spending so much time together and it will be quite stressful, we should schedule some time to socialize and get to know each other outside of wedding planning.”

Fitz’s eyes widen involuntarily. “Really?”

Jemma glances at him and for the first time her ultracompetent persona slips. “We don’t have to,” she says. “It’s just, it would be nice to be friends. You’re so important to Daisy, and I hang out with her and Trip quite a bit. It would be good for all of us to be comfortable together.” She bites her lip, shrugging. “And I moved here a few months ago because of this job offer and Trip and Daisy are the only people I know in the city. I’d like...you know, to meet other people.”

“Oh,” Fitz says, feeling a little whiplashed from the conversation.

“But of course I know you have your own friends and...and responsibilities. So we can take those off the schedule. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. The lighter-colored sections are tentative anyway.”

He feels the sudden, inexplicable urge to smooth out the frown line between her eyebrows. “No,” he reassures her. “I think it’s a good idea. Anyway, I’d probably be at home playing video games otherwise.”

She smiles at him, her whole posture relaxing. He’s oddly proud that he’s managed to soothe her.

Jemma slides the phone back across the table at him, brand new instagram profile open on the screen.

“Ugh,” he groans. “Why _thedoctorfitzy_?”

“Daisy calls you ‘Fitzy’ sometimes, you don’t like it? Plus you’ve got a PhD, and then there’s the Doctor Who reference. I know you love the show too because Daisy teases me constantly about us being British stereotypes.”

He finds the nickname a bit annoying coming from Daisy but not, oddly, from Jemma, and he’s determined not to analyze that any further. “Uh, no. It’s fine,” he says. “Thanks.”

Jemma stands up and moves to his side of the booth, grabbing his phone again and holding it up to take a selfie. “Smile!” she says, and he does, reflexively, even though he’s never been fond of having his photo taken.

She quickly posts it with the caption “let the planning begin! #WeddingoftheCentury”

“We’ve really got to come up with a better wedding hashtag,” Fitz sighs, and Jemma laughs as she reaches across the table for her own binder.

“All right, enough procrastinating. Let’s make sure we’re on the same page for this week’s plan.”

When they finally pack up to leave a few hours later, Fitz cannot believe how much he’s enjoyed something as tortuous as wedding planning. He arrives back at his apartment exhausted yet buzzing, collapsing on his bed with a few reports he needs to go over for work the next day. He resolutely ignores Daisy’s text message screencapping his instagram post with a bunch of emojis he doesn’t feel like deciphering. And he tries, honestly, not to flip back through his photos. It’s just that her smile is so genuine and bright.

Fitz has lived in the city since being offered a job with Stark Industries as soon as he’d finished his PhD, but he, much to Daisy’s dismay, is a bit of a homebody. It would be nice, he could admit to himself, to have another friend. Especially one as clearly brilliant and kind as Jemma. All he needs to do is stop looking at this stupid photo. And get this inexplicable fluttering in his stomach under control.

He sighs. It’s going to be a long eight weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

In three weeks, Jemma Simmons has managed to entrench herself so deeply into his life that he can’t even remember what it was like before he knew her. They meet up with Daisy and Trip fairly regularly, but more often than not it’s just the two of them. Ostensibly, they always get together for wedding planning (aside from the pre-arranged “non-wedding-related meetings”), but after that first brunch, they’d discovered she worked for a company Stark Industries was interested in acquiring, so their conversations meander from their work projects (the non-classified parts, at least) back to Daisy and Trip’s wedding, until they inevitably start trading theories on _Doctor Who_ or recommending books and movies.

Fitz has always been shy and a bit of a loner. The only reason he has a social life at all is because Daisy, alone once again in a new place, had latched onto him during freshman orientation and refused to leave until they were fast friends. He adores Daisy and, his customary grumbling aside, he’s usually enjoyed himself when she’s dragged him out to parties or to meet her other friends. But being with Jemma is effortless in a way he’s never experienced before. They’ve taken to talking over each other and finishing each other’s sentences—a practice Daisy calls “FitzSimmons-ing,” which he tries to pretend annoys him.

He also tries not to think about what will happen when the wedding is over and the time slots in his week reserved for Jemma suddenly disappear. Because despite what she said when they first met, he can tell Jemma could have a full social calendar if she wanted. She talks highly of her colleagues, even inviting him along for her department’s after-work happy hour now and then. Daisy’s friend Elena insists she join them for girls’ nights out, and Bobbi is constantly harassing her for being too busy with work to do anything fun. If anything, Jemma’s social life is almost more active than she seems to want, and Fitz worries once this wedding is over, she’ll realize how much he’s been infringing upon her rather limited free time.

“Um, Earth to Fitzy,” Daisy sing-songs, waving a French fry in front of his face. Fitz’s chin slips from his hand, and his elbow catches painfully against the edge of the table.

“Ow,” he moans, glaring across the table at Daisy, who doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic.

“I was _saying_ , I feel like Trip and I haven’t done anything for the wedding except offer a few preferences and act as a tiebreaker. Is this normally how weddings work?”

Trip laughs. “All of my friends end up begging to elope because of how awful it is, so no, I don’t think it’s usually like this.”

Fitz frowns. “I guess we have sort of taken over…”

Daisy pushes the rest of her fries towards Fitz, who eagerly stuffs a handful into his mouth. He truly loves Trip’s “no junk food in the temple” policy, as it means he’s always on the receiving end of Daisy’s leftovers. “No, believe me, I’m loving it,” she ressures him. “I thought I’d be stressed out of my mind, but everything is falling into place. But I worry that, I don’t know, you and Jemma have lives of your own, and it seems like you’re spending all of your free time on this. That wasn’t my intention. I don’t want you two to like...resent me.”

She looks unexpectedly vulnerable, the same fear of rejection in her eyes that he recognizes from when she’s shared stories of her life in foster care. But he doesn’t know how to explain to her how much fun he’s been having without giving too much away. _I haven’t been this happy since working on my dissertation_ is something he knows instinctively he should never confess. He swallows thickly and wipes his hands off on a napkin.

“I promise we don’t resent you,” he says. “If it gets too overwhelming, we’ll let you know. But uh...it’s been fun. I’m sure more people would enjoy it if they weren’t planning their own weddings, you know?”

Daisy exhales slowly, looking both satisfied and relieved at his answer. Trip, on the other hand, is staring at him a bit too intensely and Fitz can’t help fidgeting a little under his gaze.

Jemma arrives before he can say anything though, sliding into the booth next to Fitz and motioning a waiter walking by. “Greek salad, please,” she says, “and a Bendeery.” She sighs, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “I’m so sorry I’m late. This project at work turned into an absolute nightmare. The formula was _completely_ unstable—”

“—even with the other reactant?” Fitz asks, and she nods miserably.

“But I really think if we could get a better delivery mechanism—”

“—you know that one I showed you could work, if we modify it a bit to hold a smaller amount of the dendrotoxin—”

“Fitz, that’s genius! But your designs are all proprietary. Stark would never allow it.”

“Last I heard, your company agreed to the deal, so we could all be working for Stark soon. In the meantime, I have a meeting with him next week, I could bring it up? He’ll be so excited with the latest DWARF design he might agree to anything.”

Jemma laughs, brushing a strand of hair back from her eyes and accepting her beer from the waiter gratefully. “This is amazing. I hope the acquisition goes through, my work could benefit so much from your expertise.”

“And vice versa,” he says, tapping his glass against hers. “We haven’t had a good biochemist in the lab for ages. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’ll say,” Daisy mutters, and both Fitz and Jemma glance up at her, not understanding.

“What’s that?” Fitz asks.

“Come again?” Jemma says, at the same time.

Trip coughs, nudging Daisy with his elbow in a manner meant to look accidental. “Enough work talk. You know we can’t keep up with you two.”

Jemma blushes. “Sorry, Trip. It’s just so thrilling to finally have a friend who _gets_ it, you know? Like you and Daisy!”

Now it’s Fitz’s turn to blush, as Daisy arches her eyebrow at him in the absolute least-subtle way possible. By some miracle, this seems to go over Jemma’s head.

“Yep,” Daisy agrees, popping the “p,” her tone too bright and casual for Fitz’s liking. “ _Just_ like me and Trip. We could talk about technical support issues for _hours_. We could stay up _all night_ talking about work.”

Fitz glares at her, unsure whether he’d rather disappear himself or have Daisy vanish. Luckily, Trip seems to take pity on him, because he pulls out his phone. “Daisy and I have a niece!” he tells Jemma, sliding his phone over to show her a picture of a newborn curled between two smiling, exhausted-looking parents. “We were telling Fitz before you got here. My sister went into labor a little early, but everyone’s healthy and doing great.”

“Oh, Trip, she’s beautiful,” Jemma says, tracing a finger along the picture. “Congratulations!”

Daisy smiles, leaning back into the booth. “I have a feeling she’ll be the star of the wedding.”

“Speaking of the wedding,” Jemma says, switching swiftly back into business mode, “we do have a few decisions to make tonight. I want to get the photographer booked by tomorrow.”

Fitz breathes a sigh of relief, glad they’ve stepped back from the precipice of things he’d rather not discuss. He takes a large gulp of beer, ignoring a voice in the back of his head that reminds him the list of things he’d rather not discuss keeps growing at an alarming rate.  

++

“Yeah, and Daisy seems pretty relaxed.” Fitz props the phone against his shoulder as he opens the fridge for the lemonade Jemma had made with dinner the other night.

“Do you realize this is a record?” His mother sounds slyly amused, and he immediately feels preemptively defensive.

“What do you mean?” he asks, aware that his first mistake is even engaging.

“I believe this is the first phone conversation we’ve ever had that hasn’t been at least 90% dissertation or work-related.”

Fitz scoffs. “I don’t _only_ talk about work!”

“I know. That’s where the other 10% comes in.”

“It’s only—” he starts, but isn’t entirely sure what he’s going to say, which is fine since his mother interrupts him anyway.

“Honestly, it’s a great relief to me that you’re not spending all your time focusing on work for once. And you seem to be making more friends. Not that Daisy isn’t absolutely lovely, but she’s getting married. Surely you don’t want to be the third wheel _all_ the time.”

“ _Mum_ ,” he groans. “I’m not the third wheel!” He pauses, suddenly unsure. “Am I? No, I can’t be, surely someone would have said...”

“I’m just saying, it’s nice not to have to worry about you. It seems Jemma is ensuring you eat properly and leave the flat now and then. It’s good for you.”

Fitz presses his forehead against the refrigerator door. He should have known not to tell her about Jemma. “We’re friends,” he says, warningly.

“Did I ever say you weren’t?”

“You know what you were implying.”

“Leopold James Fitz, I said no such thing, and I’ll thank you not to put words in my mouth.”

Fitz sighs, chastised. “Sorry.”

“I’m just glad you found a friend who shares so many of your interests. And her research sounds fascinating. Lord knows I never thought you’d find someone as smart as you, but she might even be smarter!”

He opens his mouth to argue the last point but thinks better of it, instead opting to drink some lemonade and offer a noncommittal hum.

“She’s quite beautiful, too. And from Sheffield! Of course, it would have been nice if she were a Scottish lass, but there aren’t many of them there, are there? And Sheffield’s not too far. I bet she would love Scotland. Has she ever been? Maybe you could bring her the next time you visit.”

“She mentioned a holiday in Perthshire once—wait, how do you know where she’s from? I only said she was English.”

He can almost hear his mother straightening up. “I don’t need a PhD to figure out how to work a computer, Leopold.”

Fitz chokes. “Mum! Are you _stalking_ her?”

“It’s hardly stalking if she’s put it out there on the internet, is it?”

“I think that still counts, actually,” he groans. “And why would you be stalking her if you just want her to be my friend?”

“Oh,” she says breezily, “I would never force my opinion or hopes on you, but you’re clearly in love with her, so I thought I’d find out what I could since you’re so reticent to share any information.”

“I’m not in _love_ with her,” he hisses, right as three sharp knocks cut through the music he has playing in the living room. Fitz can’t help it, he actually gasps.

“Is that Jemma?” his mother asks, infuriatingly innocent.

“I have to go,” he says.

“Love you, Leo. Talk soon?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grouses, walking to open the front door. Jemma grins up at him, holding aloft a bag of delicious-smelling takeaway. He gives her a thumbs up. “Love you, too, Mum,” he says, disconnecting the phone before she can say anything else horribly embarrassing, especially now that Jemma is close enough to hear the conversation.

“Aww,” Jemma says, setting the containers down on his table and grabbing two plates from the kitchen. “How’s your mum doing, by the way?”

“She’s fine,” Fitz answers vaguely. Normally he’s more than happy to talk about his mother, but he’s still trying to recover from her shocking accusation, and he’s afraid Jemma will somehow decipher what he’s so embarrassed about.

Jemma arches an eyebrow at him as she spoons food onto their plates but doesn’t press. He sighs, searching for something to add and coming up empty. “Thanks,” he says, taking his plate from her and sitting down on the couch.

She joins him, and they flip through their binders while they eat. Today is simple—mostly updating the budget with the latest bookings and ordering a few odds and ends from Amazon. Really, they could easily have done everything on their own, but neither had even thought to cancel their evening plans.

Jemma is oddly subdued after they finish dinner. He’s about to ask if anything’s bothering her when she suddenly blurts out, “Does it surprise you that neither of them seems to have any doubts about this at all?”

Fitz frowns. “Why is that surprising?”

She shrugs. “I know marriage is just a social and legal construct, and surely if you’re committed to one another, actually getting married won’t change anything. But we still, as a culture, imbue the wedding with a lot of significance. There’s this idea that it should be a fairytale, you know? Your happily ever after. It’s a lot of pressure to put on one evening, and even more to put on a relationship.”

Fitz gapes at her and she turns to face him, looking sheepish. “It’s just...how can you ever be 100% sure? Even if you really love someone, how can you know for certain you would be happy spending the rest of your life with them?”

He picks at some lint on his trousers, considering. “Maybe you aren’t supposed to know. Maybe that’s the point—no matter what happens, through all the ups and downs, you still choose that person.”

“It’s romantic when you think about it like that...and a little scary.” Jemma smiles at him, crinkling her nose, and he can’t help smiling too.

She leans back against the sofa, her hair feathering out on the pillows. “I never felt sure about any of my ex-boyfriends. Like, not even 30% sure.” She laughs self-deprecatingly. “Perhaps that’s why they’re exes.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Fitz agrees, but he feels a little sick, the lie settling uncomfortably in his stomach. His “exes” were some lovely women he went on maybe a few dates each with, until his own discomfort or their boredom caused things to fizzle out. And more disturbing, the bizarre, completely irrational feeling he has that if Jemma ever wanted to marry him, he actually would be 100% sure. He knows they’ve only been friends for a month. He knows he’s being completely ridiculous. He also knows he’s never experienced a friendship like this before, and it’s making everything in his life simultaneously wonderful and excruciatingly confusing.

Jemma looks over her shoulder at him. “My parents never pressured me to marry on any particular timeline, for which I’m very grateful. But they met in year 11 and are still happily married, so I think on some level they have a hard time understanding why it’s taken me so long. For them it was effortless. I’m not even sure that happens anymore.”

There’s something so soft about the way she says this. He can see her affection for her parents and underneath a sort of longing. He could listen to her talk for hours, he realizes. He’s so caught up in her that he doesn’t even register where the conversation is heading, even though normally by now all sorts of alarm bells would be ringing in his head.

“What about your parents?” she asks. “How did they meet?”

Fitz stills. His arm twinges, a phantom pain he’d suppressed rising to the surface, and he presses his right thumb into the palm of his left hand, preemptively soothing any tremors. “Um, at uni. But I think he probably steamrolled her a bit. Although I guess he could be charming, when he wanted to be.” He tries to keep his voice steady, but he can’t hide his palpable disgust.

“Oh,” Jemma murmurs, sounding mortified. “Fitz, I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry for prying.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. He left when I was ten, and good riddance.”

“It is a big deal,” she insists.

He risks a glance at her and sees her face filled not with the uncomfortable pity he’d expected, but compassion and a kind of quiet protectiveness. It breaks something loose in his chest, and he listens to himself with mild horror as he confesses to her things he’d never told anyone before: “He used to yell all the time. Called me stupid and worthless, said I’d wind up in a gutter somewhere. But he left, and then it was just me and my mum. Which was nice.”

“You must miss her a lot,” Jemma whispers.

“Yeah. I felt homesick for the longest time at uni and guilty for leaving her, especially since I started a few years early. But she’s never been anything less than supportive. It’s nice having a good job now, I can take more time off to visit or pay to fly her out here.”

She leans towards him and then hesitates. “Um, is this okay?” she asks, one hand outstretched. He nods, although he’s not sure what she means.

Jemma pulls him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning her head against his shoulder. He’s so surprised that it takes until she starts speaking before he rests his own hands to her back, his touch featherlight.

“I know it was a long time ago, and I’m so sorry I’m the one who brought it up. You’re such a wonderful person, Fitz. You’re smart and kind and funny, and I’m truly grateful to have you in my life. Your father never deserved you.”

She squeezes him even tighter before moving back and catching his eyes. He’s stunned and doesn’t know what to say— _thank you_ seems inadequate, but nothing else comes to him.

“And if you ever see him again, please call me. I would thoroughly enjoy having a nice chat with him.”

Fitz laughs but there’s a fierceness in her expression much harder than he’s ever seen before. “I’m serious,” she says, lips turned into a slight frown.

He smiles softly. “I know you are,” he says. “And it means a lot to me. But hopefully he’ll never show back up anyway.”

Jemma nods and stares at him for a moment, a look he can’t parse on her face. Then she sits back against the couch and sighs. “I think we’ve done enough wedding planning for the evening. Want to watch a movie?”

“Yeah,” he agrees readily. “ _Four Weddings and a Funeral_?”

“Ugh, please no.”

“ _The Wedding Planner_?”

“ _Fitz_ ,” she warns.

“ _Bridesmaids_?”

“...Actually, that one I wouldn’t mind.”

He tosses her the remote and heads to the kitchen to make some popcorn, feeling oddly weightless.


	3. Chapter 3

“I have a penis problem,” Jemma says, very seriously, as soon as she opens the door for him.

Fitz is proud of himself for keeping his eyes firmly focused on hers, and for only the slightest of coughs. “I’m sorry?”

She grabs his arm and pulls him into her kitchen, the entire surface of which is covered with penis-shaped cookies, desserts, gummies, and other food items he can’t identify.

“Look at all this!” she hisses. He notices her eyes are rather blood-shot, like she hasn’t slept in a few days.

“Very…anatomical,” he replies. It’s the first time he’s seen her kitchen in such disarray. Dishes are piled in the sink, flour has spilled onto the floor, and disturbingly-accurate baked goods are stacked precariously atop the counters.

“I don’t know what to do,” she wails. “Daisy was talking about wanting penis-shaped _everything_ for her bachelorette party, so I stayed up all night making these, but it turns out she was joking and just wanted everyone to go bowling and drinking, so the guys could come, too. But I didn’t realize she was joking! And this isn’t even the worst part—”

Jemma drags him out to her living room, which is filled with the most garish of penis-shaped streamers, necklaces, plates, balloons, and other party accoutrements.

“Honestly, I don’t want to know where you even found all this,” he says and then he starts laughing at how ridiculous her place looks.

“Stop laughing,” she says, and something in the way her voice catches causes him to look at her in concern.

“Jemma,” he tries to reassure her. “Come on, it’s not all bad.”

She swipes furiously at her eyes where tears have started to gather, and he shifts uncomfortably. It seems like she could use a hug, but he feels a bit like she might not want comfort from someone who actually has a penis.

“I know I’m being ridiculous, but everything’s so stressful at work,” she says. “I’ve been leaving at 10 every night this week, and I’m behind on our wedding schedule. And then Daisy said this and I thought she was serious, and now I feel like an idiot because of _course_ she was joking, and I should have messaged you but I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupts. “What do you mean? You never bother me. Of course you could have messaged me!”

Jemma sighs. “I know how busy you’ve been as well, and we’re already over our allotted wedding and non-wedding-related time for the week.”

Fitz leans back on his heels, a prickle of hurt sliding through his veins. “We can only talk if it’s scheduled?” he asks.

“No, of course not,” she protests, sitting down on her couch and grimacing as she pushes a penis-shaped pillow to the side. “But I thought—”

“I thought we were friends,” Fitz says, mentally kicking himself for how childish he sounds.

Jemma looks up at him, tears still hanging on her lashes. “We are, but—”

Fitz crosses his arms over his chest. “No, if we’re friends, then you have to call me when you’re this overwhelmed. We don’t have to wait for scheduled meetings, okay?”

She sniffs and nods, not quite meeting his eyes.

“And now we’re going to fix your little...penis problem.”

Jemma laughs sharply before burying her face in her hands. “There is no possible solution to this. It’s horrible.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely horrible. But we’re gonna do what we always do with minor wedding emergencies. We’re gonna fix this, together.”

Jemma smiles at him tremulously, already looking a bit brighter. Fitz picks up one of the unfortunately-shaped platters and steps into her kitchen, piling it high with cookies and cake. He brings it back and presents it to her with a flourish.

“I’m positive that despite all appearances, these taste delicious. So we’re going to eat until we can’t, and then I’ll take some containers to go.”

Jemma reaches for a fork and laughs. “I should have known your solution would start with eating.”

Fitz grins, mouth already full of cake. “I’ll clean your kitchen, too.”

“You don’t need to—” she starts, but he holds up his fork to stop her.

“You baked everything! This is my contribution, no arguments.” He moves on to his next point before she can try to argue, and a grateful smile lingers on her face. “Next, you know Sally in the medical research lab? Her best friend’s getting married, and she was complaining the other day about having to buy all this junk. We can offload some of it on her. I’m sure she’d pay you.”

“Honestly, at this point I’d give it away for free to get it out of my living room.”

“Understandable. But I bet she’ll offer something.” Fitz takes some pictures with his phone, then frowns. “Uh, can you send the pictures to her? It seems inappropriate coming from me.”

“Yeah, no woman wants unsolicited dick pics,” Jemma agrees, smirking at him as she takes pictures with her own phone.

Her joke combined with the quirk of her lips causes him to blush, and he quickly stuffs a cookie in his mouth so he isn’t forced to respond. He’s pleased to see that she at least appears less upset than she’d been five minutes earlier. He picks up a particularly horrifying crown after she’s finished texting Sally.

“And _this_ ,” he says, “will be worn by Daisy all night. Her punishment.”

Jemma bites her lip. “Is that really fair though? No one should be subjected to that. It actually came free when I bought all the other stuff. That’s the moment I started to think I might have made a huge mistake.”

Fitz perches it on top of his head carefully. “No, she definitely deserves this. I can’t wait to see her in it.”

Jemma doubles over laughing and then manages to take a picture before he can stop her.

“No,” he pleads, horrified. “Please don’t show that to anyone. I’m begging you.”

He expects her to mock him, but her smile is oddly affectionate. “Of course I wouldn’t. But I am keeping it for whenever I need a quick pick-me-up.” There’s a gentleness to the way she gazes at him and it causes his heart to falter.

“Okay, that seems fair,” he acquiesces, before setting the crown on her head. “But I get a pick-me-up picture too.” He worries for a second that he’s crossed some line; she scrunches her nose at him, and he’s suddenly very aware of the X-rated nature of the objects surrounding them, ridiculous though they might be.

She tilts the crown to give herself a more jaunty look and picks up a nearby staff. “All right,” she says. “But you’ve only got one chance to take the perfect picture.”

He hardly pays attention as he takes the photo, distracted by the brightness of her smile. When he looks at it later, he sees that it’s slightly out of focus, the light behind her throwing a halo around the ludicrous crown. The blurring makes it look as if she’s mid-dance. It’s a silly picture, but there’s something so very _Jemma_ about it, and he doesn’t know why the image of one his best friends smiling and carefree should cause sharp pinpricks all over his skin. For no reason at all, Fitz finds himself struggling to hold back tears. He thinks of what his mother had said, the last time they talked, and a strange sort of horror fills his lungs.

As if on cue, his phone rings. He takes a breath before answering. “Hi, Mum,” he says, proud of the way he manages to keep his voice from wavering.

She knows immediately that something’s wrong, though. She had never understood when he tried talking electronics, but it had been the two of them against the world for so long that she can read his moods like a book. “Oh, Leo,” she says, the affection in her voice plastering to his skin like an analgesic. “What happened?”

He sniffles, rubbing a hand against his eyes, and then he tells her everything.

++

“Can you believe we’ve done practically all the work for this wedding, and yet we wound up as the designated drivers?” Fitz complains, taking a sip from the same beer he’s been nursing for the past hour.

“That’s not the worst part,” Jemma says, playing with the straw in her drink. “We’re the only sober ones, but somehow we’re losing.”

“Yeah, that is embarrassing. I’m not surprised Bobbi is kicking all our arses, but how on earth has Hunter bowled two strikes in a row? He’s cheating, right? There’s absolutely no way.”

Fitz hears a high-pitched shriek seconds before Daisy jumps on his back. He instinctively braces a hand against the table, the last of his beer sloshing onto his shirt. He grabs the leg Daisy has wrapped around his torso to steady her and grimaces at Jemma.

“I’ll get you another,” Jemma laughs. “I need a refill on this Diet Coke anyway.”

“Fitz,” Daisy whispers into his ear as soon as Jemma steps away. “I need to tell you something important, okay?”

“Okay, but my back kind of hurts, can we—” He cuts himself off with a gasp as Daisy nearly chokes him trying to climb further up. “Guess we’re having this important conversation the old-fashioned way,” he mutters, a little annoyed Daisy isn’t sober enough to appreciate his sarcastic aside.

“I really love you, you know that? You’re one of my best friends.” Daisy nuzzles her face against the back of his neck, and he smiles, oddly emotional at the thought of how much they’d been through together.

“I love you, too,” he says, but Daisy slaps a hand to his mouth in an attempt to shut him up.

“I promise I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, but Jemma loves you, okay, like _loves_ you, and you love her, so please can you like make some super cute genius babies soon?”

Fitz freezes, glancing frantically around until he notices Jemma still standing at the bar. A denial is on the tip of his tongue, but the tiny part of his brain that has somehow maintained hope wins out. “Um...how-how do you know? That she loves me?”

Daisy groans. “It’s _so_ obvious, Fitzy. Her heart eyes are out of control.”

“Oh,” he sighs. So, she doesn’t know, she’s just a victim of the same wishful thinking he is. He lets go of her leg and gently guides her back to standing. When he turns to face her, he’s surprised to see her eyes shimmering with tears.

“Hey, no, none of this. It’s your bachelorette party! Why are you crying?”

Daisy frowns, placing a palm against his chest. “I’m just...I’m really happy, Fitz. You know, with Trip. My life feels so wonderful, like more than I’ve ever deserved. And I want this for you because _you_ deserve it more than anyone and I hate thinking you’re not happy.”

Fitz smiles at her in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “C’mere,” he says, drawing her back towards him for a hug. “You deserve every good thing in your life, Daisy. And I am happy. I promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now don’t worry about me, okay? This is your night. And Trip’s. And you’re currently five points behind him, and you bet that you’d beat him, remember?”

“You’re right,” Daisy gasps, holding a hand to her mouth. “I have to go!”

Jemma slides up next to him, holding his drink out. “This feels like having children. I had to guide Hunter to the right restroom, and I can’t shake the fear we’re going to lose someone.”

“But it’s worth it, right? All the stress and pain and sleepless nights?”

Jemma laughs, bumping him with her shoulder. “Wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Fitz grins, tapping his glass against hers. Even though he’s currently experiencing the worst heartbreak of his life, he hadn’t been lying to Daisy. He is happy—happier than he’s ever been, really.

He and Jemma wake the next day alert and refreshed, working seamlessly together in his small kitchen to make breakfast for their very hungover friends, all of whom are spread throughout his apartment in various states of undress and distress. She sneaks him a piece of her aborted bachelorette cake and laughs when he gets frosting on his nose. An easy contentment rolls through him, and he thinks he’s been selfish to wish for more. Why would he ever want anything besides this anyway? He has always hated change.


	4. Chapter 4

An alarm pierces through the stillness of his bedroom and Fitz wakes in a panic, having dreamt he was late for his wedding and then had forgotten his vows. His palms are damp from his dream-self’s frantic search through pockets ( _hundreds_ of pockets), trying to find where he’d written them down, and he can still see the disgusted look Jemma—

He groans, grabbing a pillow and forcing it over his face. His cheeks are burning. She’d looked so beaut— _Stop it_ , he chastises himself. He has no idea what is wrong with his brain or why it’s choosing to torture him during the few precious hours reserved for sleep. And why on earth would he be having a stress dream about _his_ wedding when Daisy is the one—

_Shit._

He falls out of bed in a desperate attempt to reach for his cell phone, which he just now realizes has started ringing.

“I’m up, I’m up, I’m on my way, I’m so sorry,” he says from his position on the floor. God, he’s such a human disaster.

Jemma’s delighted laughter echoes in his ear. “I knew you’d be asleep. But I changed the alarm on your phone to go off an hour earlier.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You know you love me,” she says, and he clamps a hand over his mouth, not trusting his barely-functioning brain to not accidentally reveal sensitive information.

“I did this for your own good,” she continues, apparently not noticing his lack of response. “We can’t have you oversleeping on such an important day. We’ve worked so hard for this!”

“I think you might be more excited about today than Daisy and Trip,” he says, rolling over onto his back. He’d never noticed how comfortable his floor was. He could fall asleep here.

“Don’t go back to sleep!” Jemma says sharply, and his eyes snap back open. He can’t help smiling—even when she’s cheated him out of an extra hour of sleep and is bossing him around (maybe especially when she’s bossing him around, but he’d rather not analyze that), she manages to light up every part of him. He’s tempted to blame two months straight of wedding planning for his ridiculous sentimentality, but deep down he knows he’d feel this way regardless.

He sighs, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s the plan?”

There’s a dangerous silence, and when he hears Jemma’s slow exhale, he laughs. “I’m kidding. I have the very detailed plan memorized.”

“Not the day for your jokes, Fitz,” Jemma says, but she’s laughing as well.

“I’ll pick up tea and meet you at Daisy’s in an hour,” he says, slowly standing up and cringing at the way his bones creak. After this wedding, he’s sleeping for days.

++

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather Jemma help you?” Fitz asks, holding his hands up awkwardly.

Daisy rolls her eyes. “You’ve seen me in a bathing suit, Fitz. This is far more modest.” She turns her back to him and holds her hair to the side, allowing him access to fasten the intricate buttons of her dress. “Plus you’ve got those engineer’s fingers,” she smirks.

He sighs but buttons her up carefully, slightly worried he might snag the delicate lace.

“Anyway, Jemma’s busy getting ready with the other groomsmen, and you’re my man of honor. I want you here.”

He finishes and spins her around, and she grimaces at him. “Be honest, Fitz, do I look ridiculous? I feel kind of ridiculous.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to second-guess your dress?”

Daisy throws her arms out to the sides. “I’m a former hacker who used to live in her van. I feel like people will look at me and know this isn’t who I really am.”

He smiles softly at her. “No one looks like this all the time. You love this dress, so of course it’s who you really are. And Daisy, you look beautiful, that’s the only thing people will be thinking when they see you. Trip’s going to be crying before you make it halfway down the aisle. But, if you honestly don’t feel comfortable, I’ll help you sneak away and buy something new. Jemma built extra time into the schedule for emergencies.”

Daisy laughs, pulling at a strand of her hair. “I’m sorry I’m being so dramatic.”

“You’re not. Anyway, you’re allowed to be a little stressed and dramatic on your wedding day.” He places his hands on her shoulders, trying to reassure her. “I just want you to know I’m so grateful you chose me to be your man of honor. It means a lot to me to be here for you.”

Tears spill over onto Daisy’s cheeks and she pulls him into a fierce hug. “Okay, but that is the absolute last sweet thing you can say to me. As soon as they do my makeup, I refuse to cry.”

Fitz grins. “Okay, then. Let’s get you married.”

++

He hasn’t seen Jemma since the groom’s side split off to get ready at Trip’s hotel room, although they’ve exchanged hundreds of texts. She sends him a picture of her and Trip, and he’s grateful he has a chance to prepare before he sees her in person, because she’s absolutely stunning.

It doesn’t help though, because when he stands beside her at the end of the aisle, waiting for the other groomsmen and bridesmaids to go first, he forgets how to breathe.

“What is it?” she whispers, jarring him from his thoughts. “Do I look weird? I feel a bit weird all dressed up like this.”

“No,” he says, voice catching. “You look nice, that’s all.” It’s all he can think to say and it’s nowhere near enough, but she smiles as if he’s paid her the greatest compliment. She links her arm through his to walk him down the aisle, and he tries, and fails, to stop himself from imagining how this might feel in another scenario.

He’s right, Trip does cry before Daisy’s halfway down the aisle. Daisy grins broadly, all of her pre-wedding nerves gone. She’s sandwiched between May and Coulson, her mentors in college who’d seen her potential when no one else had and helped her graduate with distinction. They’re both as stoic as ever, although Fitz is surprised to see a slight mistiness to Coulson’s eyes, and he notices May holds on to Daisy’s arm for a beat longer once they reach the platform.

The ceremony is short and simple. There’s always some point during a wedding where he has to cringe—either at over-the-top cheesy sentiment or, more often, some archaic, misogynistic reading. But Trip and Daisy’s wedding is nothing like that. It’s a celebration of each other and everyone in their lives who helped them reach this point, of finding someone you want to choose every day, of a connection Fitz can’t explain with an equation.

He glances over and sees Jemma looking at him, an almost longing expression on her face. He smiles at her, but she blushes and looks away. He knows why she’s embarrassed, and he wishes he could tell her he understands what it’s like when you’re unbelievably happy for your friends and yet your own yearning starts to lap away at the joy. He wants to say someday someone will make her as happy as Trip makes Daisy, but the pain of it not being him is still too raw.

Fitz reaches for her during the recessional and together they walk back down the aisle towards the reception, where he can already hear drinks being poured. Jemma waves her bouquet at the audience and giggles before resting her head against his shoulder. He soaks in as many details as he can, and then when they separate and Jemma leaves his side to say hello to one of the guests, he closes his eyes and tries desperately to let that dream go.

++

“And have you seen the way he looks at her?” Jemma sighs dreamily, fully caught up in the romance of the evening. Paper streamers twist slowly from the ceiling and the lights from the DJ booth cast everyone in mesmerizing, surreal shades of violet and green. It’s late now; half the guests are passed out at their tables, awaiting the final send-off, the rest are spread between the bar and the dance floor.  

Fitz glances over, watching Jemma as she watches Trip twirl Daisy around. His heart clenches painfully and he looks away before she catches him staring.

He scoffs. “I have eyes, Jemma, of course I’ve seen.”

Jemma turns to him, frowning. “Why are you so grumpy? The ceremony was beautiful and everything worked out perfectly.”

Fitz bites his lip and shrugs. He’s annoyed at himself for making her think he is anything less than thrilled. Because in truth, he _is_ incredibly happy. He’s never seen Daisy so radiant, excited and yet simultaneously at peace. He remembers the times she’d cried herself sick in his arms after Ward cheated on her. He remembers the way her voice broke when she’d confessed to fearing betrayal and abandonment had twisted all the good in her, had made her incapable of loving and being loved in this way. And now here she is, married to a wonderful man who adores her, celebrating with her own eccentric, utterly devoted, makeshift family. He hates himself for letting his own insecurities poison any of this happiness, for selfishly thinking he wants this and will never have it. And mostly, for fixating on the idea that after this night is over, he and Jemma will drift apart, the only thing holding them together just a memory.

He’s a rotten man of honor. Absolutely the worst. And he shouldn’t have taken such advantage of the open bar.

It takes him awhile, in the midst of his spiraling, to realize he hasn’t responded. When he looks up, Jemma is staring at him, nose scrunched in thoughtful concern.

“Fitz?” she asks. He shakes his head, horrified to feel tears gathering and a building pressure in his sinuses. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“I’m just tired,” he murmurs. He hears her standing up and for a moment nothing happens. And then she runs her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp playfully.

“Come on,” she says to the top of his head. “Let’s dance.”

A refusal is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows Jemma Simmons won’t take no for an answer, and really, does he even want to deny her? He lets her tug him up, and he lets her lead him into the middle of the dance floor. His throat is incredibly dry. He hopes she can’t feel his palms beginning to sweat.

Fitz stands completely still for a second, unsure where to put his hands. Or his feet. Jemma laughs and carefully maneuvers his hands until they rest against her waist. He hardly touches her, but his fingers burn where they graze the silky fabric of her dress. She wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head against his chest, swaying gently to the music. She’d dragged him out right in time for a bloody slow dance, and he’s both terrified and exhilarated.

He’s hyper aware at first—of the erratic pounding of his heart, of every space where her body touches his. He can feel the whorls of her fingertips where they rest against the back of his neck and the gauzy ends of her dress brushing over his shoes. He takes a breath and dares to rest his cheek to the top of her head. Her hair smells like it’s been doused in hairspray, and underneath it her mild perfume battles with the sweet, sharp scent of her sweat from all her earlier dancing. The combination is strangely intoxicating. He closes his eyes and for once manages to slow his brain enough to appreciate being in the moment. Swaying in the dim light after a perfect evening with one of his very best friends.

Because she is. Somehow, she has managed to sneak into his life and light up all the dark corners. He can’t imagine his life without her and he knows, honestly, that he doesn’t have to. She might not feel the same way about him—she absolutely is not _in love_ with him, but he will still have her friendship after this wedding is over.

And when she gently pulls back after four more songs have finished and smiles up at him shyly, when she takes his hand to drag him to the bar for more champagne, when she toasts their ability to pull off the wedding of the century with a cup of cherries stolen from a maligned bartender, he truly believes this is enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Fitz thinks when he wakes is _why am I sticky_? He is sticky all over, and it’s a supremely unpleasant feeling. His mouth tastes like it’s been stuffed with cotton balls, and the sunlight streaming in the large hotel windows burns his retinas.

He’s still in his dress slacks and socks and somehow his tie, although his shirt is nowhere to be found. He’s struck suddenly by the realization that he might actually be dead. He feels very much like he’s died and, well, perhaps he should have gone to church because it turns out there’s an afterlife after all, and he most definitely didn’t make it to heaven.

It takes three tries before he successfully rolls over and finds himself staring at a smooth expanse of creamy skin, dotted with constellations of dark freckles.

Fitz panics. He can’t remember how he got here. The last thing he remembers is sitting in the corner of the dance floor with Jemma, splitting a bottle of champagne. The DJ announced Daisy and Trip would be leaving, and Jemma had crushed Daisy to her, telling her she was beautiful and wonderful and she and Trip were the best couple and she was _so unbelievably happy for them_. And then everyone was gone and Jemma was holding his hand again, and he had been deliriously lighthearted.

And then, nothing. He doesn’t know whether to wake Jemma or not. He doesn’t know what to say. Shame curdles in his stomach. He draws the blankets up to his chin, staring at the ceiling.

Jemma turns, her arm brushing his bare chest. The tiny hairs of her arm prick his skin like needles.

“Jemma,” he whispers, an apology already forming on his lips. She groans, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement but not opening her eyes.

“Relax,” she mumbles. Most of her face is buried into a pillow.

“What?”

“Stop freaking out. Nothing happened. Your honor is safe.”

Fitz blinks, gazing down at the Jemma-shaped lump next to him. She still hasn’t opened her eyes.

“I’m not freaking out,” he says, although he very much is and despite her clearly hungover state he knows that she knows.

She groans again, more dramatically this time, and rolls over onto her back. He sees, with some relief, that she’s still wearing her dress from the night before. She throws a hand over her face, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“We were very drunk, we couldn’t find my hotel room, so we came back to yours and slept. That’s it.”

“Oh,” he says, comforted and unmoored at the same time. “Good.”

Jemma tilts her head slightly, eyeing him through the gaps of her fingers. “We talked a lot before we passed out though. You don’t remember?”

Fitz gulps. There’s something in her tone that puts him on edge. Now that she mentions it, he can sense snippets coming back to him—but murky and distorted, as if trying to watch a movie underwater. He doesn’t remember what he said, but he remembers her laugh. And he remembers her crying.

He licks his dry lips. He’s suddenly unbearably thirsty. “Did I...I upset you, didn’t I?”

Jemma closes her eyes again. She doesn’t speak for so long he thinks she must have fallen back asleep. “No, Fitz,” she eventually sighs. “Of course you didn’t upset me. You would never say anything to upset me.”

“But I did something,” he insists. He leans forward instinctively, brushing a strand of hair back from her forehead. His fingers graze her skin and her face crumples. She looks completely devastated in a way he’s never seen in her before.

“ _Jemma_ ,” he pleads. He can’t stand seeing her like this. It’s wrenching something deep inside him. He hasn’t felt this helpless and torn apart since hiding in a closet with his mother before his dad finally left. “Jemma, I’m so sorry. Please, tell me what happened so I can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” she cries. She covers her face with both hands, but the more she tries to calm down the harder she sobs. “It’s all my fault and I just...can you just let me be heartbroken for awhile? And then we can pretend this never happened?”

His own eyes fill with tears, and he’s not quite sure whether it’s in knee-jerk sympathy or because truly, he understands what she’s going through, and he wouldn’t wish his own heartache on anyone, least of all one of the most amazing people he’s ever met.

Fitz slides carefully towards her and runs a comforting hand through her hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and she inhales another shuddering sob. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I know it’s hard to imagine now, but you’ll find someone you love just as much as Trip. More, even. And that person will love you like you deserve to be loved. I promise you can get through this.”

His eyes are unfocused as he speaks, catching flecks of dust spinning in the patches of sunlight. He feels like a hypocrite, because even as he reassures her, he knows the same platitudes wouldn’t be true for him. But how could they be? Jemma is not someone you get over.

Jemma ceases crying as if she’s an actress and the scene has ended. Her breath hitches and she blinks at him slowly, eyes puffy and mascara ruined.

“ _What_?” she asks. “Trip?”

Fitz fidgets uncomfortably beneath her direct stare. His head pounds and he wishes he could be having this conversation when he wasn’t the most hungover he’s been in his life. “You’re...you’re talking about Trip, right? I get it—I mean, everyone’s probably at least a little bit in love with him. And the-the wedding is bringing up all these feelings...”

Jemma frowns, and he can’t read in her expression if she’s shocked or hurt. “I’m not in love with _Trip,_ ” she hisses. “ _I’m_ the one who told him I’d never seen him happier and he needed to let Daisy know he was serious about her! I’m-I’m _happy_ for them, you _know_ I’m happy for them, why-why would you—?” She cuts herself off and pulls the blanket to her face, drying her tears. “You really don’t remember,” she sniffles, sounding small and defeated.

“You’re scaring me,” he says. He wants to reach for her again, but he’s afraid to cause her even more distress.

“I’m sorry.”

Fitz shakes his head quickly. “Please don’t apologize. I just...I hate seeing you this upset.”

Jemma nods, drawing her legs up and folding her arms across the tops of her knees. She leans her head down and looks sideways at him. “It’s my own fault,” she says. “I read too much into things. And Trip told me he thought you—but, Trip was in the midst of wedding preparations. Of course he was seeing people falling in love everywhere. Normally I’m, I’m very thorough. I never would have—not without all the evidence, you know. But I guess I wanted... and then you—you didn’t say anything, you just looked so surprised and upset and I knew I’d made a mistake.”

Fitz feels like she’s speaking a foreign language, one he’s studied but never been able to grasp, because he knows the individual words and yet they’re aligning in ways that defy all meaning. He opens his mouth and realizes he has no idea what he’s going to say.

Jemma sits up fully before he can speak, back ramrod straight, and faces him. She looks heartbroken but committed, like she’s been preparing for battle and now she’s determined to see it through, even though she can’t possibly survive.

“I want you to know,” she says, “that I value your friendship more than anything. And just because I sprung this on you, and you don’t feel the same way, doesn’t mean I-I’m in any way upset _with_ you. I know I’ve made things terribly awkward, but I hope we can continue to be friends because it...I would be devastated to lose you.”

She bites her lip, unsure. “Can we start over?” she asks. She holds her hand out towards him, hesitant but determined.  “I’m Jemma Simmons, noted biochemist, perfect English rose, and Trip’s good friend since high school.” She smiles when she uses Daisy’s introduction from months ago, but her hand quivers slightly.

Fitz looks from her bright, hopeful eyes to her outstretched hand. He knows what he should say. _Leopold ‘don’t call me that’ Fitz_ is somewhere in the back of his mind, but his brain feels coated in molasses, synapses firing and never reaching their destination. He takes her hand between both of his, unconsciously moving to warm her icy fingers.

“No,” he whispers. He’s drawn to her, caught in her gravitational pull like he has been from the beginning. “No, I don’t want to start over.”

Her forehead wrinkles in confusion or concern, and before his brain can catch up, his body is already moving. He draws her towards him and her eyes widen. They both realize at the same time that they’re on a collision course. Maybe they always have been.

Fitz doesn’t close his eyes until his lips touch hers. They’re chapped and wet from her tears, and she tastes of day-old lipstick and the aftermath of too much celebration. It’s still the best kiss he’s ever had. She brings a hand up, smoothing his stubble and drawing him closer, but her movements are impossibly gentle and slow, like wading carefully into the ocean because she’s still afraid of the moment she won’t be able to touch the bottom.

He thinks they must stay like this for hours. Nothing exists except for the press of her lips against his, the fabric of her dress bunched in his hands, the sound of her sighs captured in his mouth.

When she finally pulls back, she smiles at him, and the brightness of it completely blocks out the sunlight behind her. He smoothes a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, and it should be the most terrifying thing he’s ever done, but it’s only the truth. And he knows with the utmost certainty that Jemma would only ever keep his heart safe.

She laughs. “Maybe you could have said so last night when I told _you_ I was in love with you. Instead of looking like I’d stabbed you and then passing out.”

Fitz blushes and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Jemma. I probably thought you didn’t mean it. Or maybe that I was having a hallucination. Or that I’d died. You know I was really, ridiculously drunk right?”

Jemma grins, grabbing his tie to draw him in for another kiss. “Me too. Hence confessing my undying love for you instead of, you know, just asking you on a date.”

He kisses her cheek, her forehead, her temple, slowly and adoringly. He feels somehow like he’s been drowning this whole time and she’s his first breath of oxygen. “Playing it cool is overrated,” he murmurs, smiling against her lips.

Jemma brings her hand to his heart and frowns. “Sorry about your shirt,” she says.

Fitz is completely enchanted with the way her freckles peek through the smudged makeup on her face and it takes him a moment to understand what she’s saying. “What?”

She holds her fingers up, grimacing. “I spilled half a bottle of champagne on you. You’re still sticky.”

He looks down at himself and back up at her and bursts out laughing. Honestly, they look completely haggard, and he realizes the pounding in his head is less from his recent emotional roller coaster and more from the inhuman amount of alcohol he’d consumed the night before. He stands up from the bed, almost immediately falling over, before miraculously righting himself.

“I’m taking a shower,” he announces, “and then I’m sleeping for a million years.”

Jemma smirks up at him. “I’d join you, but I don’t think you’re quite recovered enough to handle that.”

He’s clearly not recovered enough to even handle Jemma’s salacious wink—all he can do is turn quickly (much too quickly, god was he too old for this) towards the bathroom.

After he showers, he changes into his pajamas, feeling like an entirely new person. Jemma gets up, trying hopelessly to straighten her dress. He hands her a clean t-shirt and sweatpants from his luggage. “In case you’re tired of sleeping in that,” he says, and she smiles at the offering.

When she emerges from the shower twenty minutes later, skin clean and pink, wearing his slightly-oversized clothes, his heart throbs in his throat. There’s something so domestic about the way she looks, about how she crawls back into bed and immediately rests her head against his chest, as if they’ve done this for years. He feels almost guilty for how happy he is—surely he’s never done anything in his life to deserve the way her damp hair cascades over his shoulders.

“Good night, Jemma,” he sighs, relishing the way his tongue curls around her name, now that he can say it without having to hide his affection.

She smiles and moves closer, wrapping herself up in him. “It’s one in the afternoon,” she counters.

He kisses the top of her head, already half asleep. “Mm,” he agrees. “G’night.” Everything is tender and comfortable—the bed, the blankets, his body where it’s heated by hers, his heart where it patters beneath her hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Fitz wakes because his phone won’t stop incessantly buzzing on the nightstand. He blinks rapidly, disoriented when he opens his eyes and finds the entire room dark, only a sliver of moonlight shining through the window. Jemma is half on top of him, her arm holding him so tightly to her side it’s as if they’re alone in the middle of the ocean and he’s her only life raft. It should be painful, but instead it’s oddly grounding. He turns his head, inhaling the subtle lavender scent of the hotel’s shampoo, preparing to snuggle back down for the foreseeable future.

Four more alerts buzz through on his phone in rapid succession and he groans quietly. Panic flares through him when he halfheartedly picks up the mobile and sees the notification of 57 text messages from Daisy. She and Trip should have been at the airport by now, he realizes. Surely nothing—

He gently extricates himself from Jemma’s grip and unlocks his phone. Relief mixes with more than a bit of annoyance when he skims through the messages and discovers that not only is Daisy alive and well, she’s sent him a seemingly endless barrage of texts, all in capslock, along the general lines of “I heard from Mack who heard from Hunter who swears Bobbi saw you and Jemma going to the same hotel room and you need to tell me everything RIGHT NOW.”

Ignoring her has, unfortunately, never been an option, so Fitz sends her a terse, “Go enjoy your honeymoon with your husband. Talk later.”

He doesn’t think it’s possible for Daisy to reply as quickly as she does.

[Daisy]: LEOPOLD JAMES FITZ  
[Daisy]: HOW DARE YOU  
[Fitz]: Everything’s fine, we talked.  
[Daisy]: ABOUT YOUR NEVERENDING LOVE FOR EACH OTHER?  
[Fitz]:....Yes, something like that.

There’s a surprisingly long pause before her next message.

[Daisy]: Hey man, it’s Trip. Daisy’s having a meltdown and TSA is eyeing us. Sorry to bother you. We’re really happy for you two!

Fitz can’t help laughing, which causes Jemma to moan in protest at his side. He sets his phone back on the nightstand, after making sure to set it to ‘do not disturb,’ and turns to face her, nuzzling her nose with his.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“I was so peaceful sleeping too,” Jemma sighs.

“I know, but I’m glad that you’re up.” He kisses her closed eyes, her eyelashes fluttering against his lips.

She squints suspiciously. “Why? Have you got something planned?”

Fitz shakes his head, smiling softly. “No, I just missed you.”

Jemma blinks up at him, her expression serious. “That’s very romantic,” she says.

He’s not quite sure whether the thoughtful crease of her forehead is good or not, so he smirks at her, huffing in exaggeration. “We both know I’m the romantic one,” he shrugs.

Jemma glares at him, poking him mercilessly in the side. “Hey! I had an exactly equal contribution to what turned out to be the most romantic wedding ever. _And_ I ended the night with a love confession so, really, you’re playing catch up here.”

Fitz grabs her hands to stop her attack, kissing her knuckles, her palms, the insides of her wrists. He can feel her pulse thrumming against his lips. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “I’ll probably always be playing catch up.”

Jemma frowns. “You don’t think this is too...I don’t know, cliche? I mean, best man and maid of honor—”

“I think you mean best woman and man of honor,” he interjects.

“Right, whatever, best woman and man of honor, meeting for their friends’ wedding, falling in love, living happily ever after?”

Fitz leans against the pillow, trying to read her expression. “Are you having doubts?”

Jemma sighs. “No, actually. That’s the problem. I _always_ have doubts. I’ve never been in a relationship before where I wasn’t plagued with doubts. And with _you_ I feel...I feel 100% certain, which is impossible and ridiculous and—”

She breaks off when Fitz starts laughing. He quickly apologizes at the aggrieved look on her face. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just, I was 100% certain I could be happy spending the rest of my life with you about one month into our friendship. So I’m probably not the best person to ask.”

He kisses her gently, soothing the worry lines from her forehead. “Maybe,” he offers, “we should stop thinking altogether—”

“And just do, yeah,” she finishes. There’s a beat where they stare at each other, and then they move at the same time, her fingers carding through his curls, his hand finding the warm skin between her shirt and sweatpants, their lips meeting in the middle.

***********

Their kiss is soft and gentle until it isn’t. She angles her mouth, insistently deepening the kiss, and he can’t help groaning when her tongue pushes against his. He feels dizzy, overwhelmed by her and lightheaded from the blood rushing south. She leans over him, her hair falling down and framing his face, blocking everything else out until she’s his only sensation.

Her fingers skim over his chest, scratching through the fabric of his shirt. Before he’s fully aware of what she’s doing, she’s trailed the patch of hair down his stomach and slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his pajamas, wrapping her fingers around his rapidly hardening cock. He moans, unable to stop himself from thrusting helplessly into her hand.

“Jemma,” he gasps, when he can think. He reaches down and gently pushes her away. “Not—we can’t—”

She looks at him, brow furrowed. “Why not?” There’s no evidence of any doubt she might have had on her face; once she’d decided, it seems, she is all in.

Fitz blushes. “I, uh, I don’t have...you know, anything.”

“Ah,” she says. She dips her face again, kissing him slowly and drawing his lower lip between her teeth. He lifts a hand up to hold her more firmly to him, but she wriggles out of his grasp and hops off the bed.

He blinks at her, dazed, as she rummages through his duffle bag. “Ta da,” she says, holding up a brand new box of condoms.

“Um, but I...I swear those aren’t mine. I wasn’t expecting anything, honestly—”

Jemma laughs, tossing the box onto the nightstand and crawling back on top of him. “I know. Daisy texted me while you were in the shower. Her gift to us, apparently. I thought I’d save that information for the appropriate time.”

Fitz’s eyes roll up, although more from the way Jemma grinds down than from the revelation of Daisy’s meddling. “She’s the worst,” he mutters.

“Are you really complaining?” Jemma asks, as she removes her shirt in one fluid motion.

Fitz’s brain stutters to a halt and his hands reach up of their own accord, palming her breasts covetously. “Nope. Not-no, no complaints.”

“Good.” Jemma arches into him, her nipples hardening as he lightly pinches them.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, hardly able to believe he’s this lucky. She smiles and ducks down to kiss him slowly. She licks a trail across the stubble of his cheek, biting at his earlobe and causing his breath to hitch.

“Fewer clothes, Fitz,” she orders, and he quickly sits up, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor on top of hers. He pushes her over until she’s on her back, his eyes raking over her, drawn to the movement of her breasts as she breathes heavily. He runs his fingers delicately down her chest and she shivers, and then she tenses in anticipation as he moves lower and lower, slipping his hand into her underwear.

He rubs his thumb over her clit and she whimpers, canting her hips towards him. He slips a finger, and then two, inside her folds, marveling at how wet she already is. If he’d had any doubts left that she wanted this, wanted _him_ , he doesn’t now.

He takes his time, reveling in the feel of her spread before him. He wants to catalogue everything—the way she sighs his name, the wetness coating his fingers, the feel of her breast against his cheek. He’s mesmerized by the sight of his own hand sliding in and out of her panties.

“Fitz,” she sighs, half-pleasure and half-aggravation. She grabs his face and pulls him to her for a messy kiss, and while he’s distracted she places her other hand on top of his, pushing down harder, forcing his fingers further inside her. “Faster, please,” she moans.

Fitz licks at her lip and follows her orders. He speeds up his rhythm and slides another finger inside her, hitting a spot that causes her to arch her back and gasp. He draws his fingers out, using the wetness to coat her clit, and begins rubbing in frenetic circles.

“Oh god, oh god,” she cries, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of his hair. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises.

She can’t stay still, and the sight of her frantically angling her hips to give him better access causes his painfully hard cock to throb. He bites her shoulder, choking off a curse, and tries to stop from rutting against her thigh.

“Fitz—” she begs, and then she comes with a sharp cry, clenching against his fingers as she rolls her head to the side and gasps, panting heavily.

He slowly removes his hand, squeezing her nub one last time, and drapes his arm across her stomach. She turns to him, face flushed and damp hair sticking to her forehead. He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He gazes at her unabashedly, content to just stay here for as long as she needs, and then she reaches down and wraps a hand around his aching cock.

“Fuck, Jemma,” he chokes. She smirks, gathering his leaking fluid from the tip and stroking up and down his shaft.

She swallows his moans with her mouth as she continues pumping him, and the sensation of being entirely at her mercy is nearly overwhelming. She pulls away from him to remove his pajamas and boxers, and then straddles his hips, the soaked fabric of her panties chafing deliciously against him. She reaches over to grab a condom and he pushes up, letting his hardness hit her clit. She groans, stilling halfway into opening the packet.

Jemma looks at him, half-lidded for a moment, and then very deliberately grinds down, again and again. They both gasp, and he feels dangerously close to coming right then. He pulls at her panties and she sits up to finish kicking them off. She rolls the condom on, staring right at him as she does, and his heart stutters.

He grips her waist tightly before she can move onto him. “I love you,” he says, overwhelmed all over again by what he feels for her.

“I know,” she replies, and he laughs.

She leans forward, brushing a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, too,” she whispers, and then she guides him inside her.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he slides further into her. She whimpers as she adjusts to the sensation of him filling her, and he stops, trying to catch her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says, pushing down harder until he’s in her to the hilt, and he nearly sees stars.

She eases them into a slower rhythm at first, and he’s content to follow her lead. Then she leans forward, gripping the headboard, and the slight change in angle causes him to nearly pull out of her completely before slamming back.

“God, yes,” Jemma pants, now riding him in earnest. She moves one hand from the headboard and grips his head tightly, drawing him towards her. He takes the opportunity to suck at her breast. Even with the condom, he feels close to losing it completely, but the way she’s grinding down on him is so fucking sexy he can barely handle it.

He reaches down, once again finding her clit, slick with their juices. He swirls his fingers around and then rubs vigorously, the rhythm aligning with his frantic movements inside her.

This time, she comes silently, mouth open in a gasp and eyes snapping shut. He can feel her spasming around his cock, even as she collapses forward onto his chest, falling into a boneless heap.

Fitz lifts her gently, flipping her until she’s on her back without sliding out, and she stretches her legs even further to accommodate him. She digs her fingernails into his arse, and he’s so close that he can’t think and can’t keep up a steady rhythm, feverishly pounding into her until he finally comes with a string of curses that he tries to muffle into her shoulder. The relief of his release is intense and dizzying, and he never wants to move. Reluctantly, he pulls out of her, making sure the condom is still on, but then he doesn’t have the energy for anything else, instead collapsing on top of her, both of their chests heaving.

“Am I crushing you?” Fitz asks when he can think again. He starts to move away, but she stops him, wrapping her legs around his and locking him firmly into place.

“No,” she whispers. “You feel amazing. Don’t go.”

He has no desire to anyway. He rests his head against her shoulder and brings a palm up to her chest, relishing the feel of her heartbeat against his skin.

They don’t say anything for awhile, content to rest until their breathing slows. Fitz is so close to falling asleep, but he finally gets up to dispose of the condom. He comes back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, gently running it along Jemma’s body, across her stomach and between her thighs. He’s fully sated and yet feels a renewed interest improbably start to trickle through him. He drops the washcloth on the floor beside their discarded clothes and crawls back into bed, curling up tightly into her.

***********

“I was thinking about gifts for the wedding party,” she murmurs.

“What?” he asks, not following.

“Most couples give their wedding party...I don’t know, fancy bathrobes or monogrammed coffee mugs.” Jemma gazes at him with so much sincere love and affection that it’s staggering. “Trip and Daisy gave me you,” she says quietly. She draws her finger down his nose and along his lips. He reaches up, sliding his fingers through hers and kissing the back of her hand.

“Yeah. I’m not sure it’s possible to repay this, even if we did do practically all the work for their wedding.” He smiles at her and she snuggles back against his chest, as if she’s trying to fuse their bodies together.

“They’ll probably consider the debt repaid if we make them matron of honor and best man at our wedding,” she jokes, but her words are starting to slur and he can tell she’s moments from sleep.

If anyone had told him two months ago that he would be lying in bed only half-joking about his future wedding right after sleeping with someone for the first time, he would have assumed they were absolutely mental. But two months ago, he hadn’t met Jemma Simmons, so how could he have known falling in love would be this liberating?  

Her words suffuse him with a warm contentment, like his veins are filled with fairy lights and hot chocolate and presents beneath a Christmas tree.

“I think you mean man of honor and best woman,” he answers, but she’s already asleep, quiet puffs of air fanning out across his chest. He envelops her completely in his arms, shifting until she’s half on top of him. He kisses the top of her head, thinking about cottages and vows and a future that is always, always Jemma.


End file.
